can't talk my teen self out of that second date father paradox ----- Cinderella married the Prince maid's tight dress ----- Ice Age wanes every generation the village moves the last midden still visible at low tide not the graves ----- Mom and Dad's Pleistocene honeymoon born 10,000 years late
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Mashhura Usmonova
First love
I know you waiting for spring,
You asked him from the grass.
You don’t have idea my heart,
Spring is coming when you laugh.
You are waiting
To the sweet thought of the swallow’s song.
Don’t believe in spring, it will pass,
You’re in with love too young.
Semi-pink buds of almonds,
You’re waiting while pain from the heart.
You aware of in cold February,
A flower bloomed but you didn’t notice it.
Warmth of spring to your soul,
First of all the sun didn’t shine.
In your heart purer then an almond flower,
I was the first to open.
Mashkhura Usmanova was born on May 16, 2006 in Gallaorol district, Jizzakh region. She has been practicing writing poetry since she was ten years old. She is a member of the international organizations “Creativity Forum for Culture, Arts and Peace” of Egypt, “AsihSasami” of Indonesia, “Iqra” of Pakistan, and “Juntospor las Letras” of Argentina.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
--------------------------------------------------------------------- straight from cuba seek out the lord in the piano bar down the street maybe in the curves of the beautiful woman playing the bass guitar maybe the lord is lining up on the table in the corner or unzipping her shirt a little as she tries to make an impossible combo shot seek out the lord in a plume of cigar smoke straight from cuba the lord surely must be in this glass of whiskey you have to be a little drunk to believe in a place called heaven ----------------------------------------------------------- proud to say spent the afternoon listening to dolly parton songs while my mother was in her physical therapy session proud to say none of the poems were about the obvious ----------------------------------------------------------- the conversations get a little wordy these days i never had the need to keep up with anyone never cared for kings and queens, presidents, principals or gods got really comfortable talking to myself at an early age the conversations get a little wordy these days someone wants to show off all those thirteen letter words they know i know i am the odd one the one everyone could think would be the next mass gunman and i have never even owned a gun although the local gun shop and i share the same first name ----------------------------------------------------------------- live longer than me walking with my mother up and down the sidewalk on a finally sunny day she wants to get more mobile again either she really feels alive again or she is determined to see if she could live longer than me my anxiety has put the money on her it must have forgotten how stubborn i really am i could probably live to 100 just to fucking spite everyone ------------------------------------------------------------- who will check my emails when i die the white noise is meant to calm dull you to sleep instead, it is slowly driving me insane who will check my emails when i die do ghosts need dick pills or have the desire to contribute to a political campaign sleep in the sunshine go drinking at midnight the lost souls like to gather at the corner humming jane says like we did thirty years ago ---------------------------------------------------------------
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Black Shamrock, The Rye Whiskey Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Story from Anne Hendricks-Jones
Minerva at School The phone rang and she picked it up, eyes still riveted on the news story she was watching about a school that was on lockdown due to an active shooting. Furious at yet another massacre and annoyed at the vibrating device, she turned away from the TV, immediately recognizing the voice on the other end. “Mom!” it said. She heard, in the familiar voice, gut-wrenching fear and slowly, unravelling self-control. That was all she needed. “It’s Minnie Me’s school, isn’t it?”, she questioned, coldness beginning to seep throughout her whole body and various scenarios beginning to run through her brain. “Yes. We’re here now. Macy’s getting oxygen because she had an anxiety attack, and we just don’t know what to do. The authorities won’t give us any information. The shooter is still in there and we can’t find Gemma.” At this point, he could hold it in no longer. His hard, raspy, intakes of tortured breath were difficult to control as were the trembling shoulders and shaking hands that held the phone. She couldn’t see any of that, but she felt it as only a mother can and so with the calming, silky, and soothing voice of a Mom but the coldest intentions of a killer, whose heart is covered in bonded steel, she said, “Sweet boy, don’t you worry one bit. I’ll take care of everything!” Taken aback, her son exclaimed, “Mom! What do you mean, take care of everything? Mom! Mom?” but the line was already dead. In seconds, she was out the door, having picked up her leather satchel, which contained everything she would need, disassembled repeater rifle, knives, a change of clothes, and other nasty implements of her trade. She did not bother to change from her house dress and fluffy slippers. She would need them, too. It took just a few minutes to hop into her Bentley and fly down the driveway and out to the street, speed limits be damned. About 3 blocks from the location of the shooting, she performed an expert 180 degree turn and ended up speeding to the scene, backwards. Everyone scrambled to get out of her way as she headed for the huge plate glass windowed entrance to the school. “Sorry, sorry!” she cried to anyone who could take a moment to listen, as she ripped through wooden sawhorses and side swiped police cars. “I can’t control this car! Help!” Bam! Boom! Screech! Then there was the tingling explosion of falling glass, but she had no time to notice the effects of the crash, the reaction of her body, or anything else. There was only the fierce hate for anyone who would endanger children, crazy or not, and her overriding anxiety for her granddaughter. If he had hurt her, he would not live. Those emotions raised her out of the damaged car easily before anyone could get to her, and into the building she ran, remembering to limp as if old age and injury had command. She had no difficulty finding the correct room. The kids were screaming, and shots were being fired. She had her Black ops outfit on in no time, with only seconds before the SWAT team arrived. She banged on the closed door. “Is this the hospital?” she questioned, in her best old lady voice. “My car just crashed and I’m hurt. I need a doctor. See? I’m bleeding!” and she held up a bleeding arm to the small window in the door. She continued to scream, “Help, help!” until the gunman, thinking he had another valuable hostage, turned toward the door. The bullet landed right between his eyes, and he fell to the floor with a flop. Entering quickly, she told the kids, “Run! Run as fast as you can!” Out the door they went, clogging up the narrow hall, giving her a minute to hide her satchel and change back into her house dress and flipflops and cower in a far corner of the hallway. Now, she was screaming and crying for real, as adrenalin began to withdraw. SWAT and officers questioned her, but all she could do was respond in hiccups. “That man pointed a gun at me! Those children were SO loud! All I wanted was to see a doctor!” and “Where am I?” The questioners gave up. It would have to wait until later. They turned her over to paramedics who took her to their ambo but soon deserted her for the more critically injured. This was the opportunity she needed to creep away, over to the waiting, black, window-tinted Suburban, just up the street. As she slid into the luxurious back seat, Darryl, her handler, looked at her as if to say, “Keep on doing this shit and your ass is cooked!” She responded in kind, the eyes saying it all. “Mess with my family and die!” just as her phone rang. “Mom, mom! We got her! Gemma’s fine. Macy’s happy as a clam and I am so relieved it’s over. Some old lady crashed into the building, and it was the breakthrough the cops needed to take over. Whew! Mom? What did you mean about take care of everything?" Minerva did not answer but Darryl watched the smile of the century cross her face and the few wrinkles smooth out to reveal the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Wow!” He said to himself.
Poetry from Noah Berlatsky
I Don’t Trust Spring I don’t trust spring so I wore my winter coat And now I am too warm thanks to duplicitous spring. Fate moves too quickly for me Like the important email I am waiting for which will not arrive, But in reverse. The world is too fast for me Or possibly too slow. The joggers are not over dressed The trees sprout leaves in just the right amounts. But I am left out of the season Like an email which will not arrive. Like an email which will not arrive I should go to sleep in my coat And dream of the bare arms of winter. And dream of the bare arms of winter. And dream of the bare arms of winter. I don’t know what comes next. Revolutionary Song There’s a great pale beetle in the brain of James Madison. It crawls through his buttocks onto the cheese plate of Benjamin Franklin. Cheese bounces like rubber upon the fiery honor of Alexander Hamilton. The narrative journey wears the green plaid socks of George Washington. Do not doubt it; do not doubt it. History will swallow you if you doubt it. We have found a fearless squid writing fearful poems in its ink sac and they all say do not doubt it. Thomas Jefferson winds up his wooden teeth and they chew upon the wretched fungus in the eye of compromise. In Paris they sing to the great wigs marching on the cloudy rhetoric of Thomas Jefferson. The ink sac is dry; the doubt drips like chicken soup into the soul of the brain of the heart. The origins of cryptids rise from tea like terror and Patrick Henry holds a frisbee between his gleaming gums. Every toss is a vote for truth. Every miss is a vote for death. The country stands strong as the pudding that leaks from Daniel Webster’s forehead. Do not doubt it; do not fear the porcine call Of gregarious egregious sand worms in the stall. JFK and LBJ come drifting down like fall. Praise until you doubt it but don’t doubt it.
Poetry from Laura Marino Trotta
albeggia appena – diventare rugiada senza saperlo it barely dawns – to become dew without knowing it * luce da oriente – nel pallido cammino un papavero light from the east – along the pale path a poppy * campi innevati – un nodo di silenzio chiude i pensieri snowy fields – a knot of silence blocks my thoughts * novembre in petto – tocco un nuovo silenzio di seta grigia November in my chest – touching a new silence of grey silk * acqua che scorre – è più dolce la luce di fine autunno flowing water – the late autumn light is gentler * notte d’asfalto – nel silenzio le voci ruggine e vento asphalt night – voices in the silence rust and wind * erbe selvatiche fra le crepe dei muri – senza una madre wild plants growing in the wall cracks – motherless * veli caduti – tramonti negli occhi sul muro grigio fallen veils – sunsets in the eyes on a gray wall * finestre accese sulle vite degli altri – la notte intorno windows lit on others' lives – night all around * senza più cielo – confondono il cuore i prati d’asfalto no more sky – the heart confused by asphalt meadows * occhi d’autunno – lunghe strade di pioggia senza una voce autumn’s eyes – long rain roads without a voice * solo una rosa – il profumo del cielo in un bicchiere just a rose – scent of heaven in a glass * cielo di pece – tutta la luce dietro aspetta il mattino pitch sky – all the light behind waits for the morning * piccola luce – raccoglie nella sera falene perse small light – it collects lost moths in the evening * foglie gialle – sulla panchina cadono piccoli addii yellow leaves – on the bench fall little goodbyes * fra l’erba secca i corvi a due a due – ricordi perduti among the dry grass crows two by two – lost memories Laura Marino Trotta è nata a Roma, si è poi trasferita a Firenze per frequentare la Facoltà di Agraria e, successivamente, l’Accademia di Belle Arti e la Scuola Libera del Nudo. Varie le attività lavorative che si sono succedute negli anni, mentre costante è rimasta nel tempo la sua ricerca attraverso molteplici possibilità espressive e l’impegno nel Terzo Settore. Laura Marino Trotta was born in Rome, she then moved to Florence to attend the Faculty of Agriculture and, subsequently, the Academy of Fine Arts and the Free School of Nude. Various work activities have followed one another over the years, while her search across multiple expressive possibilities and her commitment in the Third Sector have remained constant over time.
Poetry from Zadie McGrath
we thought we weren’t all that i was was a compilation of what i wasn’t: how we bounced a deflating rubber ball to and fro across white faded lines on the schoolyard blacktop talking and talking about trivial things that led us to cover each other’s cool gray surfaces so when finally the romantic disruption we had waited for came we realized there was this empty sphere of dry air below the other’s surface and plasmatic energy, unstable, below our own, a dammed-up deluge like a sip of carbonated drink; rising anticipation for the syrupy taste then the spiky needling in the soft skin of your cheeks as you attempt to swallow and swallow as the drink goes flat in your mouth and still you carry the lingering taste and the memory of craving junk food; now you wonder what was the appeal and the firmest memory you retain is that of the deflating rubber ball, worn, durable, and unremarkable.